The Hardest Pill To Swallow
by MRTL85
Summary: It's been two years since they parted ways, and Molly's moved on. Upon receiving her Save-The-Date card, Sherlock finds out she's gone missing. Will he find out who's behind the kidnapping and will he finally realize that she's the only one he's ever wanted before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

*just a heads up - I've used the UK slang for Cigarette in here (fag). I'm using the word explicitly for this intent and no other*

I do not own anything except for the mistakes. All rights go to Moffattiss and the BBC

Chapter 1

Sherlock flips the thick card in his hands as he stands in the middle of his sitting room. He stares down at the heavy crème card stock; beautiful roses adorn two corners with fine, gold filigree lettering. It's a save-the-date card—Molly's. She's finally moved on and found someone else.

Isn't that what he wanted for her? Expected from her, even? To find someone who made her truly happy? Someone who would treat her better than he ever could? He wonders if he should dare marking it on his calendar—or worse yet, even accepting the impending invitation to go to her nuptials. The probability that his appearance would cause some sort of problem is extremely high. And it's more than likely he would allow his heartbreak to get the better of him and do something he would later regret. He scans over the information on the card one last time, before giving up and dropping it on his desk and moving to look out the window of 221b.

No, he decides, it's best if he doesn't go.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, but he comes back to reality with the sound of incessant chirping from his phone.

 _Just got Molly's save-the-date card. You alright?_

 _If you need to talk about it, I can come over later after my shift._

 _J_ _W_

He rubs at his temple and begins to slowly pace his living room, phone still cupped in his palm. Should he invite John over? Would it actually help? Perhaps. At least if he was here, it may distract him for a while. He brings his phone up and sends a text back.

 _Need a distraction. Come over when convenient._

 _SH_

Suddenly, his flat felt like it was constricting, the walls closing in on him. The pressure is immeasurable; He needs out. Flinging his blue dressing gown across his settee, he switches it for his suit coat and thumps down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out for a bit. Be back later," Sherlock calls out in the direction of her flat, not really caring if she's heard or not.

She pokes her head out of the door. "Alright, dear. I'll see you later." From the pained expression flashing across her features, he knows she's also gotten the news.

Sherlock shrugs on his Belstaff, trying to avoid her pitiful gaze. "I'll be fine, Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate your concern," he throws over his shoulder, attempting to calm her fears as he opens the door. "By the way, John's going to be stopping by. Let him know I'll be back soon and to wait for me."

"Sherlock..." she says, her voice drifting off with unsaid worry as she steps out into the hallway. He ignores it, and before she says anything more, he's out on the sidewalk, the door closing and blocking her from view.

Once outside, a heavy sigh finds its way out of his lips as he closes his eyes for a moment. The fresh air was helping some. He breathes in a lungful, steeling his resolve, and turns to make his way to the nearest off-licence. No nicotine patch will do. He craves the real thing; feeling the smoke fill his lungs as he inhales, soothing his nerves, relaxing him, distracting him from the pain and the thoughts of _her_. It seems the safer choice; he knows that his brother would instantly know if he attempted to buy drugs again, so he opts for cigarettes instead.

Sherlock steps over the threshold of Oddbins, and walks up to the counter. "Pack of Marlboro Gold—king size please."

"Of course," the teller says and turns to retrieve the pack.

Sherlock hands him a fiver and taking the change, he steps out onto the street. Striding toward Regents Park, he pulls out a cigarette, and lets it dangle from his lips as he walks. Slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a sleek metal lighter and holds it up, letting the flame lick at the end until it begins to smoulder. The nicotine floods his bloodstream with his first drag and whilst the smoke curls its way around his head, he feels himself unwind just a bit.

He notes the CCTV cameras watching him from up on high, their lenses trained on him as he makes his way back up the street. Mycroft must surely have deduced by now that something has occurred, and if he's right, his older brother would be arriving not long after John. Sherlock rolls his eyes at that and continues on until he can cross the road and head into the park, wanting nothing more than a small slice of solitude away from friends or family, where he can process the bittersweet development on his own.

~JW~

"Mrs. Hudson!" John shouts as he enters 221B, urgently wanting to have a run down on Sherlock's state of mind.

The woman instantly appears, opening her door and scurrying toward him. "Oh, John... Sherlock's gone out. Says he'll be back soon and that you should wait, but I am worried. He shouldn't be alone right now."

John nods. "Did he say anything about where he was going? Anything at all?"

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head and wrings her hands, eyes filled with concern for their friend.

He rubs at his brow, other hand on his hip, trying to place himself in Sherlock's shoes and deduce where he could have possibly gone. A cold fear sits heavy in his gut, like a lead weight. He hopes that Sherlock won't try to go for more drastic means in order to cope with the news.

Without warning, the front door swings open and as John turns, expecting Sherlock, he finds Mycroft in his place.

The man looks down his nose at them in his impeccable pinstriped suit. "He's gone into Regent's Park, and he's taken a pack of cigarettes with him, if you must know. I presume this won't be the end of it either." Mycroft looks directly at John now, his blue eyes piercing. "Find him, John. You know what happened the last time..."

"Right," John affirms, and moves past the elder Holmes brother without another word. His feet slap on the pavement as he weaves in and out between groups of tourists and business people leaving work for the day, fighting his way toward the park. Even though Mycroft had narrowed it down, it was still a vast space, and Sherlock could be anywhere by now; finding him would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. He quickly checks for cars before dashing across the street and into the park, trying to keep a sharp eye out for the tall, dark-haired silhouette of his best friend.

He searches for a good, long while; jogging up and down paths, his head pivoting this way and that, eyes scanning every possible person and bench in his general vicinity. He tried texting and calling, but with no luck—the arsehole wasn't responding.

Typical.

Just as he's passing through Queen Mary's Rose Gardens, his friends baritone voice rings out over his shoulders. "Really John? It's been over a half hour. You must be slowing down in your old age. Haven't you learned anything that I've tried to teach you?"

John's jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists as he turns around to see his friend looking at his watch and pulling a fag from his lips.

"No. No, you don't get to do this." John walks up to him and pushes a finger into Sherlock's chest, unbidden rage alight behind his eyes. "Not this time, Sherlock."

He steps closer, his anger dwindling when Sherlock remains uncharacteristically silent, and continues, his voice lowering a fraction. "I know how much you must be hurting right now, I really do, but that doesn't mean you can take it out on me." John huffs, his hands now sitting at his hips as he shakes his head for a moment. "Now, is there anything you've got to tell me or do I have to search you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes another puff of his fag. "For Christ's sake, John. Do you really think I'd still be in the park if I had gotten a hold of something?"

John begins to pace in front of him, irritated. "I don't know. Would you? I'm honestly not sure if I can believe anything you say right now." John crosses his arms, his lips spreading into a thin line before he gives a double take at his watch and swears. "Look, we've got to go. I'm sorry Sherlock, but I can't stay and help you —I've spent all the free time I _had,_ looking for your sorry hide. Rosie is at the sitter's and I'm late enough as it is. Come on," he urges, unfolding his arms and grabbing Sherlock's bicep, turning him about face. "I'm dropping you off with your brother and Mrs. Hudson before I go. But I promise, I'll be back tomorrow. We can talk about it then." Knowing that Sherlock will follow, John marches off in the direction of 221B.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Really? John didn't believe him? What a ridiculous notion, why would John have any reason not to believe what he said? He hadn't felt the urge to get high in years. Not since he and Molly... oh. Right. The memories flood his sharp mind, recalling the day John found him lying on the floor of his flat, on the verge of an overdose whilst he walks in John's shadow, back to Baker St.

He and Molly tried to make it work. They really did. But in the end, it was his decision to end it. Too many special occasions missed, too many barbed words thrown at her in the heat of the moment, too many cases that took precedence over their relationship. He knew she deserved better from him, but he couldn't be the man she wanted. Changing who he was, the integral part of how he functioned, wasn't possible—even after what had occurred with Eurus. He did try though, but it wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough. And so, he doggedly pushed her away and out of his life. It was excruciating, but it was necessary. It was the right thing to do no matter how much it pained him. That didn't mean he didn't love her with all his heart. Not at all; he still loved her fiercely, but it was for the best. She deserved to be loved properly and fully; not the pitiful amount he had offered her.

Originally, he thought he could handle the pain of their separation. But after a few days, Sherlock realized he could no longer take the despair that was ripping his heart in two. A distraction was needed—something, anything—but one never came that was ever helpful enough. No cases could satiate his mind. It seemed, instead of reaching out to his friends like he should have, he allowed his demons to coerce him back into his drug habit to numb the agony he felt by Molly's loss. He only intended to imbibe his usual seven percent solution to take the edge off at first, but it soon got out of hand. Looking back now, he should have known better.

After he'd woken from his short stint in a coma, Molly had visited him—but only once. It was exceedingly difficult watching her tear-streaked face fill with animosity whilst he desperately tried to stay aloof. Her acidic words burned him raw, making sure he knew it was, without question, unacceptable of him to have blatant disregard for his own life or for any care for his family and friends. He didn't argue, knowing she was completely right. No slap came this time, but her words stung as much as if she had. After her piece was said, still shaking with fury and the heartbreak she obviously felt, Molly stormed out and never returned. That was the nail in the coffin. She had had enough; he knew there was no chance for reconciliation after that.

Once she had left his hospital room that day, he had committed the occurrence to memory for future reference. If ever he felt the need to use again, Molly's face would appear with the same desperate rage and concern, flooding his vision and deterring him from using in the future. It was his saving grace and also served as a painful reminder of all he had lost.

Rehab was the usual affair, boring and tedious, but unavoidable. Mycroft had insisted of course, and even though he despised having to go through it again, he knew that it was for his own good. Three months later, he emerged clean and ready to return to work. However, he soon realized the new problem he faced. Sherlock could not, with all confidence, lurk around the morgue of St. Bart's or gain vital specimens for his experiments after what he had done to Molly. He would need to devise a plan in order to keep his distance and respect her wishes. So, he avoided the hospital like the plague, sending John in his stead whenever a body needed to be examined, or when he required body parts to experiment on. That was until John told him that she had decidedly given her notice and had moved to St. Thomas' Hospital. She thought it best for the both of them.

Things appeared to return to their equilibrium after a year, but this was a front Sherlock had put up to hide his sorrow. He could still feel the gaping hole of where she took up space to be in his life every single day since they had parted. Sherlock threw himself into his cases with vigour to distract himself, anything to avoid confronting his feelings. As time moved on, things did indeed become easier. The white-hot pain had dulled considerably, becoming a mere ache that only occasionally bothered him now. He was able to push past it most days.

Not today. Today, his heart blew wide open again; the stitches and bandages holding the frail organ together had ripped and tore, revealing the sepsis underneath. All of the love and the pain he had to bury deep came rushing to the surface with exploding force.

She was to be married to another. He could no longer pretend she would go on as a spinster for his own benefit. Molly was moving on, and without him.

He inhales the last drag of his cigarette deeply, trying to savour the final remnants of nicotine in his system. He's come back to the world, finding himself outside of 221B with John waiting for him to follow him inside.

Sherlock puts his fag out, and moves over the threshold, stopping abruptly and narrowing his eyes. Someone else is here. Someone who isn't Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson. Woman. Mid-thirties, by her timbre. He can hear voices coming from his sitting room.

Curious, he hangs up his coat and moves past John, taking the stairs two at a time. A client. Hopefully it will be a promising one.

Walking into his sitting room, he sees Mycroft standing by his mantle piece, and a woman sitting in his chair.

"Hello, brother mine. Welcome back. Do come in and make yourself comfortable." Mycroft's voice slips out, suave superiority slipping into condescension.

Sherlock's jaw clenches at his brother's words. "What are you still doing here? No secret Government operative to oversee?" He makes his way to the couch and flops down, reminiscent of a scolded child. The woman looks curiously between the two of them.

Mycroft smirks. "Nothing that can't wait, I assure you," he says, adjusting his umbrella and moving over to the door. "Ah, Doctor Watson. Things are in order, I presume?" He looks over at his brother for a moment, silently deducing.

John looks up at Mycroft and nods. "Yep. Found him the park, just like you said."

Mycroft turns to Sherlock. "Well, I'm glad to see you've stayed off the sauce this time, brother dear. I would hate to inform Mummy and Daddy about this little bump in the road. They do so hate it when their line-dancing is interrupted." His face turns thoughtful for a moment. "It is a wonder though, how you managed that on your own, considering. Perhaps this means you've finally decided to grow up?"

A cough rises up over the wall of tension. "Excuse me gentlemen, but I need to speak with Sherlock Holmes."

It's as if a switch has been flipped. "Ah, that would be me." he says, ignoring his brother entirely, not bothering to say goodbye. Sherlock crosses the flat with two long strides and coming to stand before the woman, he does up his suit jacket.

Sherlock holds up a hand, silencing her before she speaks further. "Let me guess. You're here because you're concerned for someone. A friend—wait. Your best friend."

"Yes. I think she's in trouble. She's not responded to any of my texts or calls, and when I popped in to visit her for lunch they said she hadn't shown up for work. I'm really worried."

As he watched the woman, something funny niggled at him. She seemed familiar, but why?

"Did you check her flat?"

"Yeah, of course I did. Used my spare key and went to check inside to see if she was still there. There was a tea cup, half drunk, her cat Toby was meowing up a storm-"

Toby. Molly's cat. He turns around on the spot suddenly, and kneels down and places his hands on the armrests of his chair looking up at this woman so intensely, she wiggles awkwardly in her seat. "What did you say?" His voice trembles slightly, afraid to make the connection that Molly has gone missing.

"I said that I found her tea-"

"No. Not that. The name of the cat."

"Toby."

Then it finally clicks. Meena. Molly's friend. He must have filtered her out of his mind when he and Molly parted ways.

He looks at John now, who has found a seat at the desk, taking notes. He watches John do a double take as his face flashes with anxiety. "What? What is it, Sherlock?"

One name fills his mind. "Molly."

He shoots up onto his feet in an instant, barrelling out the doorway. He could never live with himself if Molly came to harm. He needs to find her, and fast.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Sherlock!" John yells after his friend, not sure whether to stay put for Meena's sake or run after the lanky git. He makes up his mind, hands flopping to his sides as the front door slams. John turns to Meena, who is thoroughly bewildered at his friend's abrupt behaviour. "Uh, Sorry about that. I'd love to say he's not usually this big of a prat, but I'd be lying."

Meena chokes out a shocked laugh. "That's not surprising, considering everything Molly's told me."

"Well, she'd know better than most," John affirms, the ghost of Sherlock and Molly's broken relationship hanging in the air between them.

"That she would," is all Meena replies with, unspoken understanding tinting her words. John, not wanting to wallow in an awkward silence over their friend's mishaps, waves a hand toward the doorway to the sitting room. "Shall we?"

"Sure. But how do we know where he's going? I mean he never said."

As if on cue, John's mobile bleeps with a text.

"Do hurry up, there's no time to waste. Meet me at Molly's"

SH

John smirks. "Speak of the devil," he answers Meena while sending his own text back. "Well, looks like we're going to Molly's flat. But first, we've got to make a detour."

Meena raises an eyebrow at him, curiously. "And what detour would that be?"

"We've got to stop and pick up my daughter from the sitters."

Meena lets out a chuckle at that, and they descend the stairs together.

Once in the entrance way, John dials a number on his mobile and hopes that his sitter won't threaten to up her pay for having to keep Rosie for longer than anticipated. "Ah, hi Angela, it's John... Yeah, about that... yes, I understand that it's been the third time this month, and I'm really sorry. Won't happen again, scouts honour... I'm coming to get her now, actually. I should be there about," he trails off as he looks at his watch, trying to estimate his arrival at her flat. "Fifteen minutes or so? Alright, see you then... Bye."

They pick up Rosie and make their way to Molly's flat. As they pull up next to the curb and Meena climbs out, they hear a great scuffling coming from inside, shouting and things crashing. They look at each other curiously for a moment, and Meena rushes toward the door. In a panic, John quickly unbuckles his toddler from her car seat and runs to catch up. The front door is ajar and he peers in over Meena's shoulder in shock. Shit. A man John assumes to be Molly's fiancé and his best friend are in the middle of a domestic.

"That'll teach you to break in you prick! Get out of my house!"

Sherlock glares at the unnamed man. "It's not _your_ house! It's Molly's!"

The man glances at Meena and John as they walk in and becomes a bit confused at their appearance in the flat. "What is the meaning of all this?! And who the fuck is that, Meena?" The man shouts, looking at John. His voice is loud enough to scare Rosie and she begins to cry. John tries to bounce and shush her as she clings to his neck, her head buried in his shoulder, little sobs racking her body. "Hey mate, quit swearing and lower your voice a bit. Please, for my daughter's sake. We'll explain everything to you, I promise." The man groans in annoyance, but relents anyway when he realizes he's outnumbered. Thankfully with the distraction, Sherlock relaxes out of his defencive stance, books and broken figurines lying at his feet.

Meena comes over and puts a hand on the man's shoulder. "Gavin, I think something might have happened to Mols. I have tried to text and call her, but she's not answering. And I went to see her at lunch for our usual lunch date, but she never showed up for work this morning. So, knowing that she used to know Sherlock Holmes, I decided to pay him a visit to see if he could help us find her."

"What? That can't be possible! She can't be missing!" Gavin begins pacing around the flat, hand scrubbing at the back of his head. "How long ago did you try and call her? Maybe she just had her phone off," He adds and runs to his mobile. Gavin dials her number and puts the phone to his ear, worry written all over his face. After a few minutes, he lets out a frustrated grumble and hangs up, trying again. Still no answer. Forcefully, he hangs up the phone and looks at Meena. "Wait a minute. You said Sherlock. The psychopath vigilante detective wanker?"

Meena nods.

Sherlock glares at Gavin, affronted. "I'm not a psychopath. I'm a sociopath. Get it right."

As if looking for a fight, Gavin rushes at Sherlock, but Meena grabs his arms and John steps in front of him. Together they prevent Gavin from taking a swing, placing him in one of the dining room chairs. John talks reason into him as he switches Rosie from one arm to the other. "Look mate, we're on the same side. The more people looking for Molly the better. Isn't that what you want? To find Molly as soon as possible? Because I, for one, certainly do."

Gavin backs down, defeated. He puts his elbows on his knees and runs his hands through his light brown hair, making it stand on end. "Yeah, I do," he sighs out the words to the floor, before sitting up. "Alright, what do we do first?"

Sherlock is the first to answer, his voice curt and clipped, crossing his arms indignantly. "For starters, you can tell us where you've been over the past twenty-four hours, and why you so conveniently neglected to realize Molly was missing."

Gavin nods. "Alright. If you need to know, I was on a business trip, helping my father secure a new contract with NHS Lothian in Edinburgh. I got home three hours ago, had a shower and took a nap. Since Molly wasn't due to be off until 6pm, and I had gotten a text from her this morning, I didn't think I had any cause to worry. That was until you lot showed up, telling me she hadn't shown up to work."

"No," Sherlock declares.

Gavin looks up at him questioningly. "I'm sorry?"

"You were on the business trip to Edinburgh, that much is true, but you weren't helping. In fact, your father found it quite the opposite, as per the worry lines now present on your forehead. Then again, this whole charade is because you'd like to get back into your father's good graces, isn't it?"

Gavin gapes at the sharp-eyed sleuth. "wh- what? That's- How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock sneers. "Easy. If you were a successful businessman, why on God's green earth would you still be under daddy's thumb? If he had found you competent enough, he would have let you take over the business by now. And there is the matter of you moving into Molly's—frankly small—flat. Now, if you had any money, you would have suggested that she move in with you. However, I can see from the exaggerated wear on your clothes and your moderately neglectful personal grooming, you don't. So, you made the economical choice and moved in here. And considering the lack of personal items in the room that belong to you, you either aren't fully committed to the relationship or you didn't have much to begin with. _Or_ , the more like scenario, a combination of both. Hence the reason why you want to stay in your father's good graces—so you have some place to fall back on and an extra money source if things don't work out."

"Sherlock..." John warns, cutting across his best friend's deductions like a knife. Shit. The prat is displacing his feelings onto Molly's unsuspecting fiancé. It's a good thing that Gavin is so stunned by Sherlock's deductions that he hasn't gotten up to beat the shit out of him. If he does come to his senses though, John has half a mind to not come to Sherlock's aid next time. Serves him right for still thinking that this was a perfectly logical way to deal with a situation. It's baffling that he hasn't actually figured this out by now, with all that had happened between him and his sister.

Sherlock's eyes flash with implicit understanding as John stares at him, pointedly. He lets out a heavy breath, returning his eyes back to Molly's fiancé. "I'm... sorry. That was unworthy of me."

Gavin blinks a few times, seemingly coming back to himself. "Huh. Molly tried to explain your deduction thing to me once, but I never quite got it until now. Wow, you really are an asshole, aren't you?"

Sherlock bows his head and looks back up, shame flitting over his features for a second before the cold and calculating facade is back in place. "I'm not just an asshole, I'm _the_ asshole. But I am exceedingly good at what I do, and If you want Molly found, then I suggest you take me up on my offer. Let me investigate her disappearance and I can assure you she _will_ be found and promptly."

Gavin's mouth presses into a thin line before he makes his mind up and speaks. He places his hands on his thighs and looks Sherlock directly in the eye. "Fine. Help me find her. Please."

John watches Sherlock step forward and extend a hand toward his new client. John seriously wonders if Gavin actually knows what he's getting into with letting Sherlock look for Molly. He always assumed that Sherlock never quite got over his break up, but had not realized the extent in which Molly's moving on had struck a nerve. It's curious. John speculates how this case would affect his ability to stay objective. From the looks of what had just transpired between Sherlock and Gavin—not good. John just hopes that when this is all over, and Molly's safe, that Sherlock will finally be able to figure out what he really wants before it's too late.


	4. Chapter 4

***** **Chapter warning** **: mental and physical abuse prevalent throughout most of the chapter, due to events of kidnapping ***

Chapter 4

Molly jolts awake and sucks air greedily through her nose. Against the back of her skull, an ache pounds out a vicious rhythm, her eyes bleary and unfocused as she opens them. She blinks a few times to clear her vision. Something's not right. She can feel it in her bones. She should be at work, but from the dim light, Molly knows she's not. And why the hell does it feel like her head is being split in two? What happened? Instinctively, her hand moves to her head to check for damage but is stopped abruptly by the rope that is tied around it. Fear twists horridly in her gut, and Molly tries her other hand and legs. Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Her frantic tugging makes raw angry marks across her skin now, her heart thundering in her chest as her breath comes out in ragged gasps. Tears are falling from her eyes, and she chokes sobs as she comes to the realization she's been abducted. _Abducted_. The word blares in her head like an air raid siren.

A wave of nausea suddenly overcomes her as the world tilts on its axis. Oh _God_. How is she going to get out of this? How? Panic rises in her like a savage beast. She's gasping for breath now and can't seem to gain control of her emotions enough to push the fear away. Tunnel vision is setting in, her peripheral vision growing dark. She's about to pass out.

Then, Sherlock's voice is in her head. _Molly, listen to me_! _You know what you need to do, so DO IT. You control your emotions, they do not need to control you! Now breathe!_

It takes her a few minutes, but with the help of some long, deep breaths, she manages to calm herself and her vision clears. Then it fully registers whose voice came ringing through her mind. Molly rolls her eyes and huffs out an irritated sigh. Even though she's annoyed of his continued presence in her head after repressing his memory for so long, she can't help but be grateful of his appearance in this terrible situation. In fact, it prompts her to wonder what he would do if he was the one in her position. Then, it jumps out at her like a neon sign.

A plan—that's it! That's what he would do! Make a plan to escape!

Looking around, she takes in her surroundings as best as she can. It's dimly lit, which makes it hard to search the dank space. A small sliver of light seeps underneath a door and is filtered through a few small, high windows to her right—a room in a warehouse, she thinks. She can tell that it's evening from the light shining through the windows above her. Her brows knit together, the pain in the back of her head flaring a touch, and she grunts in discomfort. How long had she been out? The last thing she remembers is walking to work, but then nothing. Her kidnappers must have hit her on the back of the head while she was on her way to St. Thomas' then, causing her not only to lose consciousness, but some of her memory too. It would be nice if she could remember something other than the street corner where she was taken; something that could help place her where she was now. Her mind sees only a blank space instead. Molly's shoulders slump. The space she's in has no helpful secrets. And with her injury, she isn't entirely sure she trusts her mind to give her an accurate account right now. Maybe there was something she _could_ do though. Maybe, she wonders, if she'll have better luck with her captors. Maybe they would unknowingly give her a clue as to where she was? It was worth a shot.

Taking the calculated risk, she calls out. "Oi! I know someone is out there! Come here and tell me why I am bloody well tied up!"

Heavy footsteps sound on the other side of the exit, getting nearer. A shadow moves across the floor, eclipsing the light coming from under the door as they stop. Her heart flutters in her chest, and she can hear the steady whoosh of blood pumping loudly through her ears as she waits for a reply.

A thunderous bang sounds out as the person slams their fist against the metal door, and Molly jumps in her seat squeaking. "Shut up you or I'll gag ya!" a gruff, cockney voice shouts through the steel.

She knows it isn't supposed to be a challenge, but she can't help but become enraged by their scare tactics. "Gag away then! I don't care! At least I'll know what you look like so I can describe you to the Police!" The door flies open and a bald, stocky man cuts a menacing figure as he stands in the doorway. "I told you to shut your gob!" he shouts at Molly and enters her make-shift cell, holding a handkerchief in both of his meaty hands. Lumbering over to her he attempts to thrust the fabric forcefully into her mouth, but she's too quick. Taking the opportunity of surprise, Molly opens her jaw and bites down hard on the flesh of his fingers. The taste of copper fills her mouth, and she knows she's broken the skin. Good. The fucking bastard deserves it.

He howls, his face contorting as he rips his hand away. Blood trickles down from the wound.

She spits out the coppery tang on the floor, her eyes leaving her captor for only a moment. A mistake. Suddenly, a searing pain jolts across her cheek, the force of it knocking her over sideways. She lands with a heavy grunt, the impact knocking the wind from her and sending her head reeling.

Sherlock's voice calls out in her mind.

 _You should have expected a slap in retaliation, Molly!_ _Keep your eyes on the man!_

Molly shakes her head and scrunches her eyes closed. She wills the discombobulation away, but to no avail. While her eyes are shut tight and her head leans against the cold floor, she feels the fingers of her attacker push painfully against the hinges of her jaw, forcing them open and shoving the handkerchief in. The fabric is rough against her tongue and she nearly gags as its pulled taut across her mouth. "That 'll teach ya, you little bitch!" he growls, the sickly sharpness of his breath blowing out over her cheek. He rights the chair with a yank, placing her back upright and stalks out, slamming the door behind him. she's shrouded in darkness once more.

It takes a few minutes, but she finally gets her faculties back.

Overall, the encounter had some merit to it. She was actually able to come face to face with her captor at least. Luckily, she was able to get a good look at him, or the whole confrontation would have been for nothing. A small blessing, that. The most discerning feature on his ugly mug was a ragged scar that ran across his large crooked nose, and a small, barely perceptible outline of a teardrop by his right eye. Those will be useful details for Greg, after, or when she escapes from this shit hole. Hopefully it will be enough.

It isn't much to go on, she knows, but every little piece of information she picks up until she's able to free herself from this make-shift prison and the bellend who roughed her up, could be extremely useful. Vigilance, is key. So, she vows to keep her eyes and ears open for anything that could help her escape this—honestly—manky situation.

Her stomach growls noisily, interrupting her thoughts. Bollocks. She really is impossibly hungry right now. Molly hadn't eaten for most of the day before she was accosted by twat-face, and she really didn't want to tempt fate with calling him back. She thought it best to try and save her strength; besides, they probably won't be feeding her tonight anyways. She is pretty sure she squashed her whatever chances to any sort of meal, no matter how meager, when she called him in to get a look at him.

What a right berk too.

It was a wonder he'd even managed to carry out a kidnapping since he hadn't covered his face, even after she told him what she'd do if she saw it. Surely, he must have had help; there was no way he could have done it all on his own. There had to have been someone else to drive, perhaps, while he nabbed her off the street. She figures at some point they'll have to switch over, allowing her to meet the other one. They've got to eat and use the loo sometime. It was just a matter of waiting it out.

A yawn escapes her With the lack of food in her system, her eyes get heavy and droop closed. Guessing they won't think to move her tonight, she tries to get as comfortable as she can. Hopefully they'll allow her the privilege tomorrow, and maybe they'll even think to feed her. She needs to play it safe from now on though; no more openly aggravating them, but using subterfuge to get what she wants, instead. After all, she still needs to be able to escape. If she provokes them enough to hurt her again, she's not entirely sure she'll be fit enough to leave on her own accord. And with everything that has happened over the past three years, she still feels the need to prove to herself that her well-being will no longer come second to someone else's, she deserves to come first, no matter what.

Another yawn finds it's way out, her mouth gaping awkwardly around the handkerchief. Enough thinking for one night, Molly decides. She should really get some sleep. Molly bows her head, and her eyelids close. It's not the most comfortable position, but it'll have to do; her body is unmoveable against her restraints, no matter how much she moves. Before long, she slips off into a restless sleep, filled with uneasy dreams of morphing faces and a wedding ceremony filled with the dead.


	5. Chapter 5

**WARNING** : *this chapter still deals with kidnapping, but it is slightly less aggressive. There is some verbal abuse and some threatening of physical abuse though.*

Oh! And I would also like to give a shout-out to my wonderful beta's for getting this chapter edited! I really am glad that you both are there to give me much needed guidance and grammar checks! Thanks a ton for getting this chapter up to par!

(I don't own anything but the words.)

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Chapter 5

The pain is back. Like roots, it radiates down her neck, and into her shoulders as she emerges from the depths of sleep. Molly doesn't tempt fate by trying to jostle her head too quickly. She stretches the pain away, inch by inch, moving her head this way and that. Her neck is in a right state this morning, and looking back on the shitty sleep she had, there is no doubt how it happened; resting in a sitting position all night most certainly equalled a buggered neck.

She opens her eyes and immediately regrets it, shutting them in an instant. Bugger, bugger, bugger! It's too bright. Shit. If her sensitivity to light is anything to go by, it's likely she has a mild concussion. Not a great start to her escape plan. Damn!

Without warning, a boot pushes against her shin, and she lets out a muffled shout in surprise.

"Rise and shine, sweetheart!" A voice hollers at her. "Time for a loo break and, if you're a good girl, some grub." Another shove to her shin and her eyelids rise again begrudgingly. It's too bloody bright, but her eyes adjust much faster this time. Moving her squinted gaze about the room, she finds a new person in front of her holding a gun. How the bloody hell had he gotten in here without her knowing? His face is covered with a balaclava, sharp eyes looking down on her. They enter a staring match for a moment. He's taller, and more slender than his counterpart—smarter too, she thinks, with his face shrouded like that.

"Now, I know what you did yesterday, so no funny business, alright? Otherwise, you'll get another slap." he pauses for a moment, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he comes closer. Bending down, he tugs on her ponytail, forcing her to look him in the eye. "Unless you're into that sort of thing? 'Cause I'll be happy to oblige," his voice turns sadistic. Her hair slips out of his grasp, and Molly recoils in disgust. "No? Oh, that _is_ a shame," he pouts and then pulls away, "I was so looking forward to it too. Oh well, maybe next time."

 _What a fucking creep_. He makes her skin crawl.

Her captor steps back toward her and she flinches instinctively. His face splits into a sinister smile and he chuckles at her aversion. _Swine_. Without warning, his hand reaches out and grabs her wrist before she can pull away. She struggles against his fingers as they hold fast, the cord rubbing deeper into her skin.

"Hold still, will ya?" he grits out between his teeth. "I'm trying to untie you, for fucks sake!"

She stops immediately, half surprised he'd even take the chance. Her mind automatically jumps to taking advantage of the situation—turning the captor into the captive, and getting the hell out of there. The gun is what stops her. It's pointed haphazardly at her chest whilst he unwraps the ropes at her hands. It's too much of a risk. There's no telling what lies behind the door of her makeshift cell—and even if she does manage to gain the upper hand—she needs to know more about the outer surroundings before pulling a stunt like that. Instead, she stays compliant and allows him to untie her. Once free, she rubs at her wrists and ankles to soothe the pain. She's thankful for the small reprieve; the cold feel of her fingers is like heaven against the red tracks on her marred skin. While trying to relieve her pain, Molly's gaze catches something glinting in his hand: metal cuffs. Irritation sets between her brows. How the fuck was she going to use the loo if she can't even wipe her own-

He smirks at her, cutting through her thoughts. "Don't worry poppet, I'll make sure to remove them beforehand. It's just a little insurance, is all," he says impertinently, and slaps them on her wrists. "Alright, up y' come." He hauls her up by her elbow, and walks her to the exit.

She feels the gun press into her temple, the barrel like ice against her skin—she's absolutely terrified. Molly shudders in fear; the next few moments could be her last if she's not careful. Better to stay quiet and alive than cheeky and dead.

Her captor has the door open, and prompts her to move out into the hall. The smell of mould and stagnant water is everywhere. It's more pungent than she expects, causing her to cough a few times around her gag. The gun moves and presses itself into her hair at the base of her skull as the man slides up behind her.

"Start walking, Love. Straight ahead. That's it, nice and easy."

His hand motions down the hall above her shoulder, and Molly proceeds forward, too afraid to retaliate. The severity of the florescent lighting is doing nothing for the pain that still radiates behind her eyes. Forcing her to squint, she walks slowly down the hall- no sudden movements. It wouldn't be good if she got herself shot.

They get to a door, and she's turned toward it. Her captor pushes it open with his free arm, and flicks the light on, prompting her to turn and face him. Not even wanting to think about what would happen if she refused to obey, she turns and waits. Pulling her hands toward him by the cuff chain, he unlocks them and lets her hands slide out of the metal. He turns her around immediately after and pushes her into the loo, closing the door behind her.

 _Finally_. Five minutes to herself, and if the gag wasn't still in her mouth, she'd no doubt sigh in relief. In fact, it would be lovely if she didn't have the bloody thing in her mouth at all. Her hands frantically reach up to untie it. It's quite a difficult manoeuvre, but the knot untangles, and her mouth is free at last. She pulls out the gag, licks her cracked lips, and works her jaw to alleviate the stiffness.

Molly takes a moment to assess her appearance in the cracked mirror above the sink. Her hair is a mess, her clothes are disgusting and a bruise is splashed across her cheek. She flinches, touching it gingerly and shakes her head. _What a right state she's in_. The whole situation makes her miss home and Gavin; he must be so worried about her. She longs for his embrace, to wrap herself up in his arms, breathing him in. To feel safe and secure again. Something she is sorely lacking right now. Her lip trembles at the thought.

She misses Meena too. It's a wonder that she still considers Molly a friend, really. Especially after all the lunch dates that she's cancelled. The truth of it is, they are seriously understaffed at work, and have been for quite some time. That's Meena for you, always forgiving. It works out well though, having extra money to put away to pay for the wedding— _even_ at the expense of her social life. Molly reminds herself to tell Meena how much she appreciates her when she gets back home.

If only she had her mobile, she could send them a text. Let them know she was okay. Tears roll down her cheeks, and leave wet tracks on her skin. She quickly brushes them away and tries to gain back control of her emotions.

"Oi! Hurry up will ya?! We ain't got all day!" Her captor's voice is a bullet through her thoughts and she starts at the sudden shout.

Quickly finishing up her business, she washes her hands, and takes a gulp of water from the tap to soothe her parched throat. She then straightens, and opens the door. A look of suspicion flashes in his eyes, and she realizes she hasn't put the gag back in. Her hand reaches up to her mouth instinctively, gasping at her mistake.

"I- I needed to get a drink of water," she says, hoping it will be enough.

Her captor pushes past her and grabs it, grimacing at the dampness of it. "Fine, but after you're done eating, you _will_ put it back in that pretty little mouth of yours." He looks pointedly at her. "Understood?"

She nods obediently.

"There's a good girl. Now, hold out your arms." He pulls out the cuffs again and snaps them on. They're tight, but she doesn't complain. Food is the only true thing she can think of now as her stomach grumbles noisily.

As he pushes her down the hall, the gun takes up residence between her shoulder blades. They turn a corner, and finally something good happens. There's some dirty, cracked windows at the end of the hall, and she hears sounds and sees buildings. It's not much, but it might just give her a clue about where she is. If only she could get a better look. Then, a plan begins to hatch in her mind. It will have to look like an accident though. That would be the only way she could possibly get away with it.

 _I knew you would think of something Molly Hooper._

She scowls at Sherlock's incessant voice inside her head. She doesn't need his approval, or his praise, for that matter. What she needs is to find out where she is without being pestered by his utterances in her brain. Molly gives a mental shove to the voice, and it disappears for the moment, letting her get on with the task at hand. They're close. Just a few more paces. Her heart thunders in her chest at the prospect of some new information, and the blood pulses in her ears so loud it almost drowns out the noise coming from outside. Almost there.

Now.

She trips on purpose, feeling the gun fall away from the spot between her shoulders as she stumbles toward the windows. Grabbing at the first sill, she takes a quick look out, desperate to find something useful before her captor pulls her back into his custody. Seeing is hard through the dirt, but she catches a glimpse of something and smirks—she knows where she's being held. It's the ace that she's been waiting for, and there's no way she won't escape now.

Her captor's hands are back on her, and he's yelling at her for being so bloody clumsy. He pushes the gun against her temple, and makes threats she knows he has no intention on keeping—at least for now. She pleads with him, holding her cuffed hands up in surrender, playing along like it was an accident. "I'm sorry, I- I must have tripped. I- I'll try and be more careful next time, I swear!"

He narrows his eyebrows for a moment, but soon relax, and she lets out an inward sigh. He's bought it. Now all she has to do is bide her time, and find the right moment to escape. Keeping tabs on both her captors is imperative; finding out when their shift changes and if they keep close or leave when their watch is over is valuable information. She needs to stay watchful.

"You better be careful. No more stupid shit, Love, or I'll blow your brains out."

She nods in silent agreement, and lowers her hands. She was sure that this threat was not as idle as the others.

He grabs at her wrists and tugs her forward toward a door. "Food's in there. Make sure to eat fast, Poppet," he advises, a perverse smile splitting his face, "'Cause if you don't, I think I'll get a slap in after all." His amoral chuckle crawls along her skin like spider's legs. She wants nothing more than to extricate herself from his company—even if it's for a few moments—just so she can eat in peace. Turning the knob with both hands, not quite sure what to expect, Molly enters through the dilapidated door in search of her much-desired meal.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sherlock doesn't like the man. In fact, he has no clue what Molly sees in him at all. It's a wonder how they even became a couple, let alone engaged to be married.

 _Graham? No- Grant? Whoever he is- is completely unworthy of her, that much is certain._

Sherlock knows it's the complete lack of commitment from Molly's intended that puts him out the most. It's unfathomable. How could Molly's fiancé feel so indifferent to his relationship with her? He assumes that they have been together for at least a year and a half; that's a considerable length of time to string someone along. It's a pity she chose to squander the chance to be truly happy with one so... unremarkable. Her love is wasted upon him! Wasted!

But he, himself was like that toward her not that long ago—that's why it bothers him so. He expected that kind of behaviour from himself, of course, but to see that behaviour being directed at Molly from someone else? No, never. He specifically broke things off because of that—she deserved much more attention and love than he felt he was capable to give. If he had known that Molly would choose someone like the man before him, he might just have decided to stay. He might have considered a more permanent arrangement, had he known what her new beau was like. At least Sherlock knows her worth. It's clear as day that- Giles?- obviously doesn't. Guilt washes over him for a moment, and he finds himself regretting yet again, pushing her away.

No. He can't think like this right now. He needs to focus. There are more important things to deal with—namely finding Molly—and that's his top priority. But he can't do it alone, and John isn't as available as he used to be. He's going to have to pull in a few favours if he wants this case solved quickly. It's crucial that they find her as soon as possible. The longer it takes, the more likely her life could be forfeit and he would rather have more resources at his disposal than not.

Sherlock's hand is still grasped in the other man's palm, shaking for what he knows is longer than necessary. Slipping his hand out of the man's handshake, Sherlock studies the man's appearance for a moment. Molly's intended is tall- taller than he is in fact, and quite broad. Light brown hair splays out over his head as grey-blue eyes stare back at him, obviously waiting for Sherlock to make the next move. Realizing that they are waiting, he jumps into action. Pulling out his mobile from his pocket, Sherlock's fingers fly over the keypad and immediately gets a text in return. Nodding his approval, he slips his phone back into his pocket and looks at his client. "I want you to go to Scotland Yard and ask to see DI Lestrade. He knows your coming."

Sherlock looks at Meena now, his eyebrow cocked. He buttons up his Belstaff, and flips up his collar. "You'll need to go with him. Lestrade will want to know your version of the events leading up to Molly's disappearance as well." He begins to walk toward the front door, but stops short.

It's plain to see that Molly had not been taken from her home. There is not a trace of any struggle—that is, except for Sherlock's own domestic. She must have been taken off of the street when she was on her way to work and wrote the text to her fiancé en route before she was captured. But what time had she written it? He needs to see the text to pin-point the timeline and cross reference it with the time she left the house and what route she usually takes to St. Thomas'.

"Do you know what time Molly left and what route she usually takes?" Sherlock asks his client. "I'll also need to see your mobile." He turns back to Molly's fiancé and holds out his hand, expecting the mobile to be placed in his palm in compliance.

Gavin balks. "And what if I say no? Do I have a choice in the matter?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs. He can see the man is worried he will pry into his personal life, and for a minute he entertains the idea. It would be extremely satisfying to send Molly a text saying that the wedding was called off and her fiancé no longer wished to see her, but he thinks better of it. The consequences would not be worth all the flak he would, no doubt, receive. "If you're worried that I might become impertinent, I can assure you, I won't. Your personal affairs are no concern of mine. I merely wish to see when the text was received and what was said, nothing more."

Gavin's lips press into a thin line, his brows furrowing slightly, as if deliberating whether he can trust Sherlock. "Alright," he says with a sigh. "She usually leaves at about seven in the morning, if she's working the mid-shift. I think she gets the tube at Angel, then transfers at London Bridge and gets off at Southwark. She walks the rest of the way to work." He unlocks the phone and hands it to Sherlock. "Here."

Sherlock opens Molly's text.

 _[07:15am]_

 _Good morning Darling! Been missing you terribly these past few days!_

 _Can't wait to see you when I get home! Love you! M xxx_

A blush rises up on his sharp cheekbones, which he desperately tries to will it away. As innocent as it is, the text carries an undertone of true intimacy between his Molly and this man. Jealousy rears its ugly head as he reads. His lip twitches with the hint of a sneer.

Molly's text gives the impression that she is happy. He's glad for that. He has always wanted her to be happy. But the envy. Oh. That just rips right through him and makes him feel like he's being torn into two pieces. The unworthy, future husband standing in front of him made the feeling worse. His mind knows he has no right to feel this way. None at all. His heart however, is of a different opinion entirely.

How can she be happy? What is it about their relationship that keeps her in good spirits, despite the fact her fiancé is unsure about the prospect of marriage? It's a complete mystery and one that he desperately wants the answer to. How can the man before him keep Molly happy in spite of all his shortcomings? What secret does he possess to keep her content to stay?

John clears his throat.

Sherlock pulls himself from his maudlin thoughts and hands back the phone to Gavin. "I'll be in touch. If anything comes up, don't hesitate to contact me." He walks into the hallway and out the door, not bothering to say goodbye. Once he's on the sidewalk, Sherlock takes out his phone again and waits for his brother to pick up.

"Mycroft. I need you to do something for me," he states while looking up and down the street, not waiting for his brother to attempt at pleasantries. "I need to see all of the CCTV footage from outside Molly Hooper's flat from the past 24 hours."

Mycroft gives an exasperated huff before he speaks. Sherlock can practically see his brother rub at his creased brow in deliberation. "I'll have it sent to Baker Street."

"Good. I expect it there as soon as possible."

"Of course." Mycroft hesitates for a moment.

His faltering pulls at Sherlock's curiosity. "What is it Mycroft? Spit it out. I know you want to say something."

"Do you really think this wise?" his brother says finally.

Sherlock's jaw clenches. "It doesn't matter if it's wise, brother dear. Only that Molly Hooper is found and returned safely."

As if Mycroft knows that's the only answer he's likely to get, he gives his assent and says his goodbyes. John and Rosie step out onto the sidewalk next to Sherlock.

"You alright? I know this can't be easy for you, Sherlock..." John trails off, swapping Rosie from one arm to another.

Sherlock slips his phone in his pocket and looks at John. "I can assure you I'm fine. All that matters for the moment is finding Molly," he states with a guarded expression. Sherlock can tell John considers what he says as complete shite, he knows that look all too well, but he doesn't contest the fact either. John was always tactful, much more than Sherlock ever would be. "I think I'll walk back to Baker Street," Sherlock says after a few minutes of silence and then turns to leave.

John's hand finds its way on his shoulder just before Sherlock takes the first step. "Sherlock," his friend asserts,

"I just want you to know... I'm here if you need me."

Without turning, he nods once and stalks off down the street. He can feel John's eyes boring into his back, but he refuses to turn around. John is right though. It isn't easy for Sherlock to see the man who replaced him at Molly's side, and even more so, to see evidence that she is happy with far less than she deserves. His heart aches; it makes him long for the days before he chose to separate himself from her. What's done is done though, and there it should be left to lay. He couldn't change the past now even if he wanted to. Perhaps though, through the save-the-date card, Molly wanted the chance of reconciliation before her nuptials. Had she forgiven him of his past transgressions, then? It certainly appeared so. Sherlock smiles at the thought. Even if he isn't able to be with Molly, at least he might get the chance at civility with her. That is more than he deserves, really, after all that has happened between them. So, he makes a vow. He will not bugger things up with her this time. He will be civil and courteous so that he might be able to bask in her sunny disposition for a time. If that is all that he's allowed now that she's going to be wed, then he will take it. Gladly. Not only does he intend to find Molly, but to also mend the ties that he had once thought severed forever. He smirks, turns the knob and walks in to Baker Street. His resolve now stronger than it ever was before.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Sherlock is anxious—he wants to find Molly more than ever now. Sleep seems a distant thought as his mind races, gladly trading his slumber in for the sound security of his mind palace.

Navigating all possible routes to Angel tube station isn't an issue. He flits over them repeatedly and deduces the amount of time each route takes from Molly's flat with any and all potential places for the abduction to take place. The issue is that Molly keeps invading his deductions.

Jumping up from the couch, he growls in frustration and begins to pace. The nicotine patches plastered to his forearm don't seem to help either. If only she would extricate herself for ten minutes, he might be able to come to a sound conclusion and be able to pinpoint the location of her disappearance. Sherlock ruffles his hair and tries again to focus, flopping down into his old leather chair in a huff.

Most of the time, Molly's presence in his mind palace is welcome; his mind's representation of her is often a crucial piece in helping solve crimes. Today, however, her company is impeaching his ability to stay objective in the face of her disappearance. Whenever he gets anywhere, her form darts across the outer edges of his consciousness. It's beyond maddening.

Without warning, the door to his flat opens and Mycroft steps through, hooking his umbrella over his arm. He nods his head in Sherlock's direction. "Brother mine."

Sherlock furrows his brow. "What time is it?"

"It's just gone nine," His elder brother says, and sits stiffly in John's upholstered armchair, crossing his long legs in front of him. A whole night gone in a blink of an eye with absolutely nothing to show for it. He hopes Mycroft will prove to be useful for once and end this infernal state of distraction.

"Do you have it?" Sherlock asks.

"Of course."

"Well?"

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft takes out a thumb drive and passes it to Sherlock.

Sherlock jumps up from his seat and strides over to his laptop, plugging the thumb drive in with shaking hands and opening up the corresponding files eagerly. He scans the first video intently, eyes flicking over the screen in search of anything unusual, his brother becoming nothing more than an irritating thought in the back of his mind.

"I take it that's all I'm to receive for my troubles?" Mycroft asks, his words edged with irritation.

Sherlock looks up. "Yes," he says pragmatically, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a case to solve."

Mycroft lets a disgruntled sigh slip out of his mouth. He walks over to his brother and watches over his shoulder for a moment. A creak from the chair groans out it's discomfort as his hands find a resting place on the back of the chair. His brows knit together as he watches his brother's former girlfriend leave her flat and begin her walk to work.

Sherlock pays no mind to his brother's snooping. If anything, an extra set of eyes might be useful. His eyes begin to burn from the screen's intense light and with the lack of sleep; he isn't completely sure he's working at peak efficiency. Not that he'd dare tell Mycroft that. Mycroft is always going on about how he's the smart one and he's so much better at deductions, now he can prove it and find the missing piece to Sherlock's puzzle.

The brothers spend several minutes staring at the screen, Sherlock fast forwarding the footage impatiently when nothing immediately turns up. He clicks on the second file of footage his brother supplied him with and in silence watches his ex-girlfriend pass again through the screen, this time at a different angle. Sherlock shifts slightly in his seat. He is almost certain that this is the footage he's been looking for. He watches as Molly slows down and pulls out an object in her handbag and types upon it. His eyes flit up to the time on the screen—7:15am. Perfect. She's writing the text to her fiancé.

Then, two suspicious figures walk into the frame. However, they are facing away from the camera, making it difficult to see any defining features. One walks past Molly as if he's just strolling along with nothing better to do, but Sherlock knows better. The other one stops and begins talking to her, using the conversation as a distraction. Molly puts her phone away and tries to leave, but the person blocks her path. That's when the other suspect returns, his face covered in a balaclava, and hits Molly over the head with a rock.

Sherlock's eyes narrow dangerously. The person who is in front of Molly catches her sinking body and tries to pull her off camera to their vehicle. Molly fights it—grasping at anything she can get her hands on. There's a small struggle but finally she succumbs to her fate and is dragged off screen.

"Stop the footage," Mycroft's voice cuts through Sherlock's thoughts. "Rewind it. I just might have found something."

Sherlock does as he is bid and rewinds the footage, stopping just before the incident occurred. They go through the footage again – "Stop. There," Mycroft points to what Sherlock missed. An object, no bigger than Sherlock's thumb falls to the ground during the scuffle and lands between the two parked cars in front of Molly and her attacker. The other assailant misses it completely as they try to restrain her and pull her out of view to where their vehicle must be. Sherlock squints at the screen. It is partially obscured by the bumper of the car, making it too hard to determine what it is. There is no sure-fire way to tell who it actually came from either. Furthermore, is the object in question still there? It's been forty-eight hours since Molly's disappearance and even if he did find the item, there is a high chance it has been crushed under a tire wheel or swept up by the road sweepers. There are so many variables, and none of them promising, but it's the only lead Sherlock has to go on. He must find the item and the sooner the better.

Mycroft breaks the silence. "If you're worried about the road sweepers finding it first, her street isn't a busy one. The object will still be there, I can assure you." Sherlock nods in agreement. "Well," Mycroft says with a sigh. "Now you can slay the proverbial dragon and rescue the damsel in distress." He walks toward the door, but stops short. "Oh, and if you find yourself in need of anything else brother dear, you know where I am." Mycroft lets the offer settle over Sherlock for a moment while his hand grasps at the door knob and pulls it open, stepping over the threshold.

At the last moment, Sherlock looks up. "Mycroft," he calls out and the door stops its journey back toward the door frame. "Thank you." Sherlock watches his brother bow his head through the crack in the door, his face shrouded in shadow as if the action were meant to be kept a secret.

"If it's any consolation Sherlock," Mycroft's voice wafts through the slit one last time, "I have every confidence that you'll find her." The door shuts with a soft click, and Sherlock is alone once again.


	8. Chapter 8

All characters belong to Moffatiss and the BBC. I merely like to play in their sandbox

Also, a big big shout out to Jeni2727 on Tumblr for being my beta reader again and preventing a huge amount of mistakes. Thank you so much!

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Chapter 8

As soon as the downstairs door clicks shut, he knows there is no time to waste. Sherlock pushes the laptop shut and moves to open the door to his flat—his feet fly down the stairs, a steady hollow drumming, mimics the steady beating of his heart. He grabs his coat and scarf without stopping and pulls them on hurriedly. Whatever the object may be, it will be small and easily lost if not found soon. And if that happens… he doesn't want to think about it- he can't even bring himself to even entertain the thought of what it could mean for Molly. It's vital that he finds it; the object in question could very

well be the linchpin for the entire case.

Sherlock's feet strike against the pavement, his long strides carry him at a break neck pace to where Molly's abduction took place. It doesn't take him long to arrive on the street corner where she was taken. He recounts the events he was shown via the CCTV footage in his mind palace until he finds the spot where the object fell.

Sherlock begins to check in the gutter. He sits on his haunches, his hand scattering debris and leaves across the pavement. Moving slowly forward as he continues to move between cars, Sherlock digs through the leaves and odd bits of garbage in hopes he'll spot the object. Then his eyes catch something a few feet in front of him. At first, he thinks it's the reflection from a small puddle as a car drives past. He squints his eyes and focuses on the spot for a moment. Among the debris, he sees a slender object poking out. He makes his way over and picks it up, without a handkerchief—the amount of grime and dirt has already tarnished any fingerprints that he could have possibly gotten.

It's a pen—and not one of those rubbish run of the mill plastic pens either—it's an expensive Parker pen. Not something a common thug would make a habit of carrying around either. Sherlock slowly rolls the pen between his long fingers and finds a small engraving: _J. Y._ At the moment, the initials hold no significance, but the engraving, sparks something in the back of his mind. It's high quality, just like the engraving done on his lighter. He pulls out the sleek clipper lighter that was given to him by Molly for their anniversary and turns it in his hand. Comparing the engravings on both, a smile grows on his lips. The font may be different, but there is no mistaking what company was responsible for both: Milne  & Yardley.

Standing up, Sherlock immediately flags down a taxi and heads over to the engravers. It takes no time at all to reach his destination—in reality he knows he could have simply walked there, but he feels it would waste more precious time—time he knows is running out. Paying the cabby, he pushes his hands into his coat pockets and looks at the building in question. At first glance, it looks like nothing more than another posh bar. Thankfully, Sherlock knows that the engravers in question rent a space on the second floor.

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door to the upper floor and walks upstairs, the cold air of authority swirling around him as he forms a plan on how to gain the information he needs. A quick deliberation concedes that the simplest approach is best. He opens the door on the landing and enters the engravers with a false smile on his face. His eyes dart about the room for a moment, finding it filled with examples of the craftsmanship and different types of engraving they do before walking up to the receptionist in a casual manner.

"Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help me," Sherlock asks as he pulls a slim black wallet from his coat pocket and quickly flashes it at the woman who is standing behind the desk.

The woman's eyes grow wide in realization. "Of course, sir. Anything to help the Metropolitan Police."

Sherlock grins. "Good. I have a pen in my possession that is evidence for a case. Now, my team and I have tracked the engraving to your shop, but cannot find who it belongs to. I was wondering if you had any information on the pen itself, or who the owner is? You do keep records like that, I hope?"

"Yes, we do," The receptionist smiles at him. "Mind if I have a look at it?"

Sherlock slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out the sleek, gold trimmed pen and places it upon the counter at the woman's request. The receptionist picks it up and examines it closely before handing it back with a smile.

"I think I remember this pen. I believe a posh looking gentleman ordered the engraving. If I'm not mistaken, it was going to be a gift. Hold on a tic, let's see if I can find the corresponding work order. She bustles away into what looks like a storage room for several minutes. "Found it," she says happily as she returns, waving the paper in her hand. "Sorry it took a bit, the order was placed in 2012." The receptionist hands him the paper and Sherlock eagerly scans the work order but stops short.

 _This cannot be right. There is no possible way. How is_ _he_ _involved? It doesn't make sense._

At the top of the work order, in scratchy scrawl is Moriarty's name.

Sherlock's mind winds up like a top for a few seconds at this new development. Never in a thousand years did he expect that name to come popping up again, at least not after the whole ordeal with Eurus. It should have been dead and buried by now. How was it that after so many years, Moriarty was still coming back to haunt him? His pleasant demeanour falters and the colour momentarily drains from his face before he catches himself and his false smile returns.

The work order comes back into focus and he looks over it again, this time more carefully. Then, he sees what he came for. The name the initials belong to.

 _Joseph Young._

For some reason, the name snags in Sherlock's mind. He knows he's heard of the man before, but he can't remember where. However there is one thing he knows is certain, if Moriarty knows this Joseph Young, it's dreadful news indeed.

Sherlock gives the receptionist a quick smile and hands her back the paper. "Thank you for your time, madam. You have proved to be invaluable to the Metropolitan Police. Good day."

The pen is slipped back into his pocket and as he leaves the building, he pulls his mobile out.

 _John. New evidence found. Immediate assistance required._

 _SH_

Sherlock flags a taxi down and slips inside. "221B Baker Street," he states at the cabby while waiting impatiently for John's response.

By the time John messages, Sherlock is almost back home.

 _Sorry I can't Sherlock. Rosie was ill last night and needs to sleep._

 _J_

Sherlock knows he shouldn't be irritated with John—it's not his fault that Rosie is sick, but he can't help the tension that seeps into his shoulders and down his arms. He needs John. Sick child or not, it's imperative John is a part of this process, especially when it involves such a sensitive subject.

He tries another approach.

 _Bring Rosie along. You won't have to leave the flat._

As Sherlock presses send, the cabby pulls up and stops outside of Baker Street. He pays and exits the vehicle hoping that his last text will convince John to come over. John is the only one he knows that will truly understand.

Sherlock's phone beeps.

 _She's already asleep. Will come when she wakes up. Does that work?_

 _J_

A grin grows on his face at his friend's compromise. He knew John couldn't resist not knowing, sven if Rosie was not feeling well.

 _Good. See you later._

 _SH_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Soon after Molly steps over the threshold the door slams shut, making her start.

"Welcome, Molly Hooper. Come. Have a seat," A voice says, the American drawl distinct.

Her head whips 'round to see a tall bearded man standing by a table laid out with food for two. She frowns in confusion.

 _Who is he?_

As if he can read her mind, he walks over to her. "My name is Joe Young. It's great to finally meet you." He holds out his hand and smiles at her, although she notes his smile does not meet his eyes. He seems pleasant enough, but something tells her not to believe everything she sees. Molly cautiously takes his hand and gives it an awkward shake, her hands still cuffed together.

Mr. Young immediately pulls a key out of his fine suit pocket to unlock Molly's restraints. "There. That's better, isn't it? I realize that after being down in that holding room for so long, you must be famished. Please, come and eat. Then we'll talk some more."

He leads her to the table that is placed in the middle of the room; the smells from the food wafting toward her make her mouth water. The scent of roast potatoes and chicken fill her nostrils with their heavenly scent. _Famished doesn't even cover it_.

Mr. Young comes to stand by her chair and pulls it out for her in a gentlemanly-like manner. She sits, surprised by the difference of attitude between this man and the other two thugs she already has had dealings with. It's premature though, and as he pushes her chair in, the hairs go up on her neck. She hears an inhalation by her ear and realizes he is much closer than he should be, especially where such fine manners are concerned. Molly stays stock still, not wanting to turn her head as a chuckle brushes past her cheek, his presence outlasting his welcome. Finally, he releases the back of the chair and moves to sit across from her, unfolding his cloth napkin as he does so.

Molly stares at him for a moment, trying to figure out who the man before her is and what he wants from her. One thing is for certain, he's the boss, which means he is the one who organized her abduction. But why? Who would want to abduct her? It's not like she has any ties left with Sherlock to prompt such drastic action now. She left that life far behind when their relationship ended—or so she hopes. But there is a nagging feeling at the pit of her stomach that makes her wonder.

She takes a few bites, trying to hold back the urge to plough food in her mouth. The food is delicious and makes her stomach growl hungrily as she eats. After Molly eats her fill and is comfortable, Joe pours her a glass of cold water without saying a word and she drinks it down greedily, placing it back on the table moments after it was filled.

Molly looks up at the gentleman across from her, jutting her chin out defiantly. "Thank you for the food and water, now can you please explain why I am being held captive?"

Joe's smile, which starts off innocent enough, turns into a leer and his hands weave together under his bearded chin. "Well, that's easy enough to explain I suppose. Y' see, you're a sought-after commodity Molly, and I am going to be the man who sells you to the highest bidder."

Molly shakes her head, confusion etched into her face. "Forgive me for seeming obtuse, but you're saying that I'm going to be sold off like some sort of slave?"

Joe nods. "Exactly. Ya' know, there are a lot of people out there who would _love_ to get a crack at owning you, especially those who still hold a vendetta against your detective ex-boyfriend for shutting down Moriarty's criminal network. But that's not all. The reason why you are here with me," he waves a hand to the decrepit room with its peeling paint, "is that my employer doesn't appear to like you very much. Apparently, they said that you had allowed an unspeakable thing to happen to one of their relatives while working with Sherlock and they could never forgive you for it. So much so, that they wanted you to be taught a lesson—one that would allow them to get rid of you once and for all.

The words become a knife, impaling her with fear. Not only did it have something to do with Sherlock, but the cause of her abduction was because she had unknowingly wronged someone while working alongside him. Molly wracks her brain trying to think of every time she had helped Sherlock on a case, desperately wanting to find the link that would lead to being taken and held against her own free will. If she could only find the link, then she could find the person who did this to her!

When nothing remotely helpful comes to mind, she turns to Joe himself. He knows the identity of who wants revenge on her, that's for certain. Perhaps she can try to pry it out of him if she plays it right.

"Oh?" Molly says, nonchalantly. "And who might want to teach me a lesson? It's not as if I regularly go looking to ruffle feathers, so the list must be short."

Joe narrows his eyes. "Ah ah ah," he waves a finger in her direction, "you naughty girl. That is not how this works. Do you understand?"

Molly's brow furrows for a moment at her failed attempt, but she relents with a nod.

"Good," Joe says with a nod of his head. "Because if you try something like that again, you should know that I won't hesitate to cause harm." His hand brushes the front panel of his suit jacket back, revealing a pistol tucked neatly away into a shoulder holster. "I mean, I'd hate to injure such a pretty flower, such as yourself, especially when I would have to sell you as damaged goods. It's just not good for business." Her face pales and Joe triumphantly leans back in his chair. His legs cross and his fingers fold together while his eyes twinkle mischievously behind his dark rimmed glasses. It sends a cold shiver down Molly's spine. The immediacy of escaping has never been so urgent. For all she knows, she could end up dead; or worse—as someone's sex slave. Molly can't let that happen, not when she's got so much ahead of her. There has got to be a way out of here.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Thankfully, Molly knows where she's being held. It's a good choice on Joe's part to pick such a place considering how secure HM Prison Holloway is—and the fact it had been closed since 2016 made it optimal for such underhanded deeds. He must have bought off the guards that patrol the facility in order to gain access to the buildings without hindrance, something Molly has to keep at the forefront of her mind if she's going to be successful in her escape. Thankfully she remembers the layout of the buildings.

Who could have guessed the memory of being at HMP Holloway would prove to be vital. Oh, how thankful she was now that Sherlock had asked her to come along with him on that cold case that day! Even though she got lost after using the loo and found herself outside in what looked like a drop off point for food and supplies, it was a recollection she was immensely grateful to possess right now. Taking the calculated risk and pretending to trip had made all the difference in her escape plan; the supplies drop off point was like a glowing beacon when she peered out of that dirty window for those few stolen moments.

Now all that was left to do was pilfer an object to help her with the bonds Joe and those manky thugs would put back on her. Molly also needs to keep tabs on when those lager louts switch off from watching her. She's got a fairly good idea about the latter, but she wants to make absolutely sure that the time frame is solid. There won't be room for error, not when she's only got one shot at this.

Molly takes a look at the place setting in front of her. There is steak knife and a fork sitting haphazardly beside her plate. Could she manage to take one and slip it somewhere without Joe noticing? Dare she even try? It would be worth it if she could extricate it out from under his nose, for sure. However, if he found out about it, Joe could just shoot her then and there—something he's already told her he'd do if she wasn't careful.

The knife would be much more useful in this situation though. She could try and slash at him if he ever came gets too close. With the fork, she would have to forcefully stab at him to do any real damage and it would only be beneficial with picking the lock on her handcuffs—if she could still reach it, that is. The knife seemed a better choice by far.

She strikes up conversation with Joe, asking him how long he's been in London for, while dropping her cloth napkin strategically on top of her knife.

"Well," he says leaning back in his chair, "I've been in the country for a few weeks, popping in on some old connections and getting prepared to auction you off. Ya' know, people never realize how much preparation goes into human trafficking. There is securing potential buyers and the price, acquiring the person or people for sale, as well as finding the right place to hold the auction and finding a corrupt auctioneer to delegate. All of these things take a lot of planning and coordination."

While he's talking, Molly takes the napkin off of the table with the knife hidden inside and it drops silently into her lap as she goes to wipe her hands. One smooth deception for sure, but she still needs to secure it in a place that is both well-hidden and can easily be reached with restraints on.

Molly keeps Joe talking, to distract him enough so she can hide the knife. "It does sound like a lot of planning. You must be getting a pretty penny for selling me off. I'm curious, how much am I going to be auctioned off for?" Molly muses. "I mean, I never really thought I was worth much at all really, but hearing you talk, it sounds as if I'm worth more than I could ever expect..."

Joe takes the bait and gives her a smile. "Well, I can't say too much, but I do get a modest sum from the person who hired me for collecting you, and I also get a small cut after you're sold. Most often women coming from a developed country cost about six to eleven grand US. Your reserve is at thirteen thousand dollars. I expect that we will reach that and then some, though, since you are a 'special case' and quite sought after due to your links to the consulting detective."

Molly takes the opportunity and moves the knife while Joe is distracted. She slips it smoothly between her pants and trousers at her hip, covering it with her shirt and sweater to obscure it. It is a precarious spot, but she needs to be able to reach it at a moment's notice. Thankfully Joe doesn't seem to have a clue about what she's just done. Now the ruse is complete, she no longer needs to sit and listen to any more of his ridiculous ramblings.

Molly's curious mood changes like quicksilver and she rolls her eyes. "You do realize that I've not been in contact with Sherlock for just over two years, right? I've not even spoke to him at all during that time, so how does that dignify me having a link to him? Sure, we used to know each other and we dated for a while, but that's all." She forgoes saying anything further about sending Sherlock a save-the-date card for her upcoming wedding. It's not like Joe needs to know anyways.

"Ha! How funny you are Molly," Joe smirks. "Of course your past has everything to do with your current predicament. I have it on good authority that when you're sold, Sherlock will come running—regardless of what happened between you two. It appears that even after two years apart, he still has a soft spot for you. And that, dearest Molly, is where my fellow colleagues and I will get our revenge for what he did to Moriarty's web. Your kidnapping and induction into the slave trade will hit him where it hurts the most. Then, we'll be lying in wait when he falls from grace and pounce when the time is right. We're gonna make sure he never, ever gets back up again!"

Joe lets a vindictive laugh fall upon Molly's ears as a sharp intake of breath fills her lungs at his confession. There is no way Sherlock will come running like the swine thinks and fall into their trap that easily. There is just no way. Sherlock is too brilliant for that, but Joe seems so sure that his plan will work. It puts Molly on edge. It's like he sees something Molly doesn't, almost in the same way Sherlock used to.

Rather than try and get him to explain further, she locks away the conversation to mull over later. Right now, all she can think of is getting far away from Joe as she can. Molly hopes that this will be the very last time she ever has contact with him.

She shakes her head with a smug smile. "You'll never get away with it, you know. You're just like Moriarty—he thought he could take on Sherlock too. The problem with Moriarty was he never expected Sherlock to go as far as he did and still come through it in one piece. So, a word to the wise," Molly says while leaning over the table, staring defiantly at him, "you better hope you've done enough planning and thought out every option, because if you haven't, he _will_ find you and take you down no matter how long it takes."

Joe's demeanour changes in an instant and he stands abruptly, his chair scraping the floor as he shoves it back with his legs. "Don't make idle threats, Ms. Hooper." His voice is a cold slap across her face, warning her of all types of unvoiced harm if she doesn't stop. He steps authoritatively toward Molly and grabs at her wrist, the skin twisting and pinching as he pulls her to her feet. He pulls the handcuffs back out and claps them back on her roughly, the metal digging into the already tender flesh. "It's high time for you to go back to your room, I think," he says and pulls her to the door. Joe bangs on the door and waits. There is a jingle of keys from the outside and moments later, the shrouded face of the pillock who brought her here appears as the door is opened fully.

Molly keeps quiet, focusing on not giving away the hiding place of her concealed weapon; the serrated edge digs into her hip like a row of razor sharp teeth as she's tugged along. It's a minor inconvenience, but one that will be worth it if it helps her stay alive.

Joe's face cracks into a sinister smirk at his hired yob. "Take Ms. Hooper back to her room and make sure she has a good night's rest."

"Right you are, boss!" The thug nods and grabs Molly forcefully by the arm, yanking her into the hallway and shoving her ahead of him. The gun he had is once again pressed between her shoulder blades as she walks back down the hallway to her makeshift cell.


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks again to Jeni2727 on Tumblr for beta-ing another chapter and getting it back to me so soon! She's currently teaching and trying to do a thesis project and write papers so a big thank you goes out to her for doing it among all that stuff!

Also, as a side note: When Sherlock calls Rosie "moy malen'kiy tsvetok" it is supposed to mean my little flower in Russian (or so Google Translate tells me. If anyone knows differently, please feel free to let me know so I can change it.)

* * *

Chapter 11

Sherlock paces across the floor of the flat waiting for John and Rosie to appear. _How long must a sick child sleep for anyway?_ He checks his watch again and huffs indignantly at it. _It's been over two hours._

The consulting detective has already put out feelers through his homeless network for any information on Mr. Young being in London, and has had the chance to look the scoundrel up. It seems Joseph was taken to court on human trafficking charges but they were dropped due to lack of evidence three years ago. Sherlock is certain that Mr. Young made sure there was little in the way of a paper trail for his underhanded transgressions and there is no doubt that Moriarty must have helped Joseph escape incarceration.

He pauses in front of the fireplace and stares blankly into the mirror. Molly must have been abducted on the same premise, but for what reason? The name Molly Hooper has been linked with his own, so revenge against himself is possible. There must be something else though. Perhaps someone else.

He smiles to himself. _This case is getting better and better._

Sherlock entertains the thought that Mr. Young isn't the mastermind behind it at all. That there is another party pulling the strings and Joseph is merely the puppet. But with Moriarty long gone, who would take the time to specifically seek out Joseph to carry out this abduction and more importantly, why now?

Wedding bells ring out in his mind, and instantly he knows. _Molly's upcoming nuptials. Revenge is certainly the cause, but why? What could Molly have done to warrant such animosity? There is no reason for anyone to explicitly target her...it must be in connection with myself. That is the only explanation._

Sherlock turns to find John holding out a steaming cup of tea in his direction and Rosie playing quietly on the floor, her nose red and running. He takes the teacup from John. "It's revenge," he states without skipping a beat and slips into his leather chair, crossing one leg over another.

He watches John stare at him for a moment, eyelids blinking and the telltale head twitch of a man who is trying to play catch up. "Are you not even going to ask me when I got here? Or even say thank you?"

"Nope."

The consulting detective secretly smirks behind his teacup. John's rolls his eyes and makes his way to sit in his overstuffed chair. "I honestly don't know why I even bother," he throws his hands up in exasperation.

Sherlock waves a hand in his direction, dismissing his petty concerns. "That's not important," he says, placing his teacup and saucer on the arm of his chair. "What _is_ important, is that I have found out Molly has been abducted by a man who is involved with human trafficking. What's more interesting is he's merely a puppet for the real person behind the abduction. This unknown person has done this to seek revenge on Molly and myself for something we must have done. For what, I cannot say though."

John blinks at him.

"Hurry up, will you? I haven't got all day."

"So you think that this Joe Young guy isn't the one behind Molly's abduction then?" John ponders.

Sherlock furrows his brows at his companion. "Yes, that's what I said! Do pay more attention next time!" Immediately, he hears whimpering coming from the floor and realizes the palpable irritation in his voice must have unnerved his goddaughter. Rosie looks up at him with teary eyes and her lip begins to tremble.

"I apologize for raising my voice, moy malen'kiy tsvetok," Sherlock smiles down at her. "I am merely trying to explain something to your father in which he is taking too long to comprehend."

Rosie frowns up at him, her hands on either side of her hips. "Be nice to Daddy! He want to help!"

Being told off by a three-year-old does the trick and he succumbs to Rosie's wishes. "Alright, alright. I'll play nice," he says with a wink and a quick smile in her direction.

John's voice interrupts the banter. "Huh. You said it was for revenge, right? Then it had to have been someone she knows. And since she doesn't have a lot of close friends outside of work, other than Meena, could it be someone from work?"

Sherlock's fingers steeple and he rests them on his lips, momentarily deliberating on John's suggestion. It almost fits. Almost. Something doesn't sit quite right though. John was correct when he said that the person would have to be intimately acquainted with Molly but he must also have had a connection to this unknown person as well. So that ruled out her new place of employment entirely, putting St. Bart's at the forefront of his mind. Without a doubt he knew he pissed off a lot of people in that hospital, but he couldn't see Molly making anyone mad enough to seek revenge. Unless...

Sherlock grins. "Close. I need to visit St. Bart's."

"Oh no you don't! I've come all this way with a sick child, Sherlock! I am not having you disappear without more of an explanation!"

Sherlock sighs and his hand moves across his creased brow as he gets to his feet. "You're right—well partially. It is linked to someone from work, but not from her present employer. It goes farther back than that, unfortunately."

John stares at Sherlock, his hands move to sit on his hips. "Okay. So what then? Someone at St. Bart's has it out for Molly?"

"Not exactly," the consulting detective says. "It appears as if her connection to me and St. Bart's is at the pinnacle of this investigation. Why else would the person in question hire a man connected with Jim Moriarty to abduct her.

John still isn't getting it. "And?" His shoulders shrug.

"The only place that we could have both come into contact with whoever seeks revenge, must be connected to St. Bart's in some way."

John's eyes widen. "It's not Mike Stanford, is it?"

Sherlock scoffs at the suggestion. "Goodness no! Mike has no motive nor reason to. But there are others who do and that is what I am going to investigate while you stay here with Rosie."

"What? Why?" John pouts like a puppy who has his treat taken away.

Sherlock walks to the door of his flat and turns. "You need to wait for Wiggins to return with any information on Joe Young's whereabouts. Besides, you have a sick child on your hands. I'm sure Rosie would fare much better if she stayed here instead of a germ-infested hospital."

"I suppose you're right."

"You know I am."

The door opens and just before Sherlock traipses downstairs, he turns. "Whatever Wiggins has, text me the details."

"Alright, will do."

Sherlock dashes downstairs. With a flip, his coat is on and he's outside in moments, walking purposely in the direction of his old haunt, St. Bart's.

As he strides along the pavement his mind palace is a flurry of activity going through all of the possible people who Molly might have annoyed. Thankfully, the list was short. A few of her ex-colleagues came to mind. They disliked the favouritism that she and Mike always paid him. He doubted that it would be enough to seek out a known criminal and subject Molly to an abduction though. Then there were the corpses that Molly allowed him to experiment on. Occasionally, the families of said corpses had issues with how their deceased relatives were treated, even if the corpses signed away their bodies over to science before death. That seems the more likely case out of the two.

Now, to match the right corpse to the disgruntled family. Hopefully the records from Molly's time at St. Bart's were still accessible and Mike would be willing to show him where they were. He hoped that it would be a simple trek with little to no resistance. The sheer lengths he would have to go to if the big wigs denied him access would make the whole ordeal much too tedious. Perhaps he could come in with a bribe of some sort for Stamford to sweeten the deal. Coffee was acceptable in these sorts of instances, he knew from experience. Sherlock brings out his mobile.

 _What does Mike take in his coffee? Or does he prefer tea?_

 _-SH_

A few moments later John replies.

 _Coffee. Black, two sugars. And if you really want to impress him, bring him some form of confectionery. He won't be able to say no to you then._

 _-JW_

Sherlock looks at his watch. Just enough time to make a detour.


	12. Chapter 12

We have come to the part in the story where all is revealed!

* * *

Chapter 12

John doesn't have to wait too long for Wiggins to show up with his information. John can smell the chemicals and body odour before Bill even enters the flat.

"'allo John," Wiggins says as he slides in through the door, all unkempt hair and rumpled clothes hiding under a tarnished jacket.

"Wiggins," John replies. "So, what information do you have on this Joe Young guy?"

"Well, looks like he's been in the country for approximately three weeks. What's really interesting though, as a human trafficking agent, Joseph has set up for an underground auction set for tomorrow night. I heard word he's been paid to sell someone valuable off to the highest bidder."

"Crikey," John lets out while scratching the back of his head. "That's hit the nail on the head, I think."

"Oh, and one more thing," Bill says, "Mr. Young and his thugs have been seen in the vicinity of the old decommissioned prison, HMP Holloway."

John's eyes nearly pop out of his skull. That's where they must be holding Molly. His hands fly to his mobile and he types everything out to Sherlock. There is no time to waste. Sherlock responds almost instantly.

 _Got it. I'll be heading there in about two hours and I expect you to meet me there._

 _I hope you still carry your gun. You'll need it._

 _-SH_

John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. _Damn you, Sherlock. Damn you. Where am I supposed to take Rosie? There is no way that Angela is going to be able to take her on such short notice!_

As if Sherlock is inside his own mind, one more text chirps through.

 _Mrs. Hudson is home and I've just asked her to take Rosie for you. You can thank me later._

 _-SH_

John smirks at the at the uncanny way Sherlock knows his inner workings before even he does. His ability to get nearly every deduction right still amazes him even after all this time.

He turns to face Bill who has begun to play with Rosie. "Well, thanks again for getting us the information Wiggins. You've proven to be invaluable once again."

Wiggins stands and looks expectantly at John. "Sherlock also said you'd pay up for any information I gave 'ya."

"Of course he did," John says, exasperated, "how much?" His hand goes for his wallet in his back pocket to pull out some money.

"Fifty quid."

John nearly chokes. "Fifty?! Jesus!"

Bill just holds out his hand waiting for the cash, unfazed by John's outburst.

"Fine. Fifty it is," John hisses , scowling as he hands the bill over. Sherlock will need to pay him back for this and with interest! John doesn't care how valuable the information is, Sherlock can't keep making him pick up the tab when something comes up!

"Ta," Bill says with a nod and saunters through the door without another word.

~HptS~

John is right. The coffee and selected danish do the trick, and Mike is more than happy to help Sherlock gain access to the records room. He even offers to look through the records with Sherlock which is a fortuitous turn of events. It would take him much longer if he had to wade through all of it alone. Sherlock is more eager to spend his time extracting Molly from HMP Holloway than pouring over medical documents for hours on end.

They get to work quickly. Stamford directs Sherlock to where they keep the records of the deceased individuals who donated their bodies to St. Bart's. The corresponding white boxes of records are then taken down and placed on a table that sits in the middle of the shelves of records. Manila folders are taken out, inspected and all the relevant information is put into a pile. Thankfully, it takes less time than expected to narrow down who might have been involved in Molly's disappearance. In fact, one of the folders looks more promising than the rest.

Male, 67. Died of natural causes and used to work at St. Bart's. Sherlock remembers him well. He was used in conjunction with a riding crop to determine if bruising occurred post-mortem. A man's alibi was dependent on it.

Sherlock flips through the post-mortem report that is scrawled out in Molly's loopy handwriting and finds the next of kin. A sister, Ena Hughes. The name triggers something in the back of his mind and he holds onto it, trying to find the significance. Sherlock pulls out his mobile to aid him. The woman's name is entered into the search engine and as soon as the results come up, it becomes crystal clear.

Ena's Husband, Bran Hughes, owns Hughes Medical Services. Hughes Medical services is the company that Molly's fiancé's family owns and he works for. The disfigurement of Ena's brother's post-mortem must be, in part, the trigger to all this madness. Molly allowed him to use Ena's brother's corpse as a test subject. It was legal of course, as the man had donated his body to science, but that must be the reason for the revenge.

That's it! That's the connection and the motive!

He does a quick once over on the picture of Ena and her husband, and finds a shrewd and cynical set of eyes staring back at him—it's not entirely out of the question either to suspect that she has some form of psychosis, although she hides it well. The way she is also standing alongside her husband tells him it was a marriage of convenience, and that she continues to stay for the prestige. Her husband, on the other hand looks to be an astute man by the way he holds himself and most likely knows of his wife's strange behaviours. Sherlock also figures that Ena's husband likes to keep her idiosyncrasies out of the public's eyes and behind closed doors. Sherlock wonders for a moment where that leaves Molly's fiancé. No wonder the man has commitment issues.

At that very moment, buzzing comes from his mobile. It's John with the information.

 _Sherlock, looks like Joseph Young has been in the UK for three weeks and has planned_

 _a human trafficking auction for tomorrow night. He's been seen in the vicinity of the old_

 _decommissioned prison HMP Holloway. Also, you owe me big time! I'm not paying for anymore_

 _information out of pocket unless you give me money first!_

 _-JW_

Just what the doctor ordered. Perfect. Everything has fallen into place, and now he can finally save Molly. A smirk picks up the corners of Sherlock's mouth while reading the last of the text. The annoyed overtone is exactly what he wants. It's just so easy riling John up, he couldn't resist—not even on a case as important as this one.

 _Call Lestrade and let him know after you're on your way to the prison. I've found everything I need here and am on my way. See you soon._

 _-SH_

Sherlock snaps the manila folder shut, puts away his mobile and looks up at Mike. "I've found what I came for. It was Molly's Mother-in-law to be. She's the one who orchestrated Molly's abduction."

Stamford's mouth drops open and his eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. "What? That's insane!"

Sherlock sniggers as he gets up and puts the folder away in the box. "No, the mother-in-law is—there's a difference." He takes one last look at Mike and adds, "I've got to go. You don't mind, do you?"

Mike's mouth hangs open for a minute before he gives his head a shake, clearing the stunned silence from his mind. "Oh no—you go and save Molly. That's much more important. I'll just clean up here."

Sherlock gives a nod of thanks, and heads for the door as Stamford begins to organize the manila folders. He makes a note to properly thank Mike later as he pushes through the door and out into the sterile hallway of St. Bart's, coat trailing behind him.


	13. Chapter 13

*Warning* chapter contains graphic violence and verbal abuse with a sexual connotation

Chapter 13

The barrel of the gun is jabbed abruptly into Molly's back as she enters the dark and dingy room, making her stumble over the threshold. As she falters, the edge of the knife comes into contact with her skin and threatens to bite. She hisses under her breath as the smarmy bastard yanks her up off the floor.

"Take a seat, poppet. I'm gonna tuck you in nice and tight now," the skinny thug says as he pulls the handcuffs off and pushes her down forcefully into the wooden chair. Another bite from the blade makes her wince. Thankfully, he remains oblivious to the concealed weapon at her hip. He cracks a creepy grin at her discomfort. "I bet you get off on being roughed up a bit, don't you love?" The slimy bastard chuckles sadistically. Molly goes green with disgust as he finds the nylon rope and fastens it tightly over her wrists and ankles again. The rope digs into her skin and leaves more angry marks, but Molly ignores the sting. She stays silent this time, and for good reason. She's playing the waiting game, and today is the final match. It's decided—she's breaking out of this absolute shit hole tomorrow.

She has been watching the guard changes with a keen eye and knows when they change over. Molly even knows who will be watching her in the morning too. Regardless if it's the big, stupid mask-less bloke, she'd rather have her chances with him than the slimy git in front of her. At least with the other one she'll have a fighting chance to get away considering how utterly dense he is. He wouldn't even begin to suspect what she had planned until it was upon him. Now, the smart one—he was dangerous. Too dangerous to risk trying to escape under his watch. He would most likely suspect something was up before she actually got herself free. And there was no telling how malicious he'd be if Molly were to try and untangle herself and make a break for the door. She'd be shot in the back most likely. That wasn't an option she was willing to contemplate.

"Cat got your tongue, poppet?" The bastard says condescendingly. Molly rolls her eyes and looks away. How could someone so disgusting be so full of themselves? She can hardly make sense of it. Suddenly, his finger and thumb are on either side of her chin as he forces her to look at him. She certainly won't miss this when she's free.

"I asked you a question, now answer me!" He demands. The stench of stale tobacco and baked beans on his breath makes her want to vomit.

"Yes. Now leave me alone," she manages to get out without gagging.

He grins, eyes twinkling like the edge of a knife as his fingers drop from her chin. "I just love your fighting spirit, poppet." The thug licks his lips. "It gives me the right horn, it does," he breathes out onto Molly's face and drags a finger along her jaw line. "and if I weren't such a gentleman, I'd be tossin' off all over that pretty face of yours."

Molly is horrified, appalled and revolted all in one go. The shock must show on her face because the thug leers at her and lets out a sandpaper laugh.

Sherlock's voice is like a bell, sounding out and clearing her mind of all the discomfort and distress. _Molly, don't lose your wits now! The miscreant has neglected to tie down your ankles. His proximity to you is close enough for you to give him a swift kick to the genitalia. I suggest you do so before he says something else he might regret._

This time, it's instinctual. She doesn't fight Sherlock's suggestions as her foot connects with the thug's bollocks. He lets out a strangled howl and crumples on the floor, gun skittering across the floor away from both of them.

Molly smirks at her work. _That'll teach you to be so mingy!_

The thug coughs and groans while he cups himself on the ground for a few minutes, then manages to get to his knees. He looks up at her, fuming. "You little bitch! You're gonna pay for that!" He gets up and lets his hand connect with her face. Blood spews from Molly's lip and her head whips to the left with the force. Through gritted teeth the thug gives a warning. "Next time you _think_ of even trying that again, you'll have more than a bloody lip to deal with!"

 _Joke's on you. After tomorrow you'll never see me again,_ Molly muses while glaring at him silently. He turns and gingerly walks over to the gun, picking it up. "If it were up to me, love, I would have had my way with you and you'd be dead long ago."

A voice startles both Molly and the thug, coming from the doorway. "Well, it isn't up to you, is it? It's up to my employer and I. Now, I suggest you tie up her ankles, tape her mouth and leave." Joe steps into the dim light of the room and waits for the thug to do his bidding.

Molly wonders why Joe's made an appearance. This seems unorthodox.

The thug grumbles under his breath, but makes his way over to her and begins doing Joe's bidding. Duct tape is applied to her mouth and her ankles are tied tightly to the chair's legs.

"Good. Now you can leave."

"But boss..." the thug looks at him confused.

Joe's eyes slant into slits. "I said LEAVE." The thug falters for a moment, but in the end does as he's told.

Molly fidgets in her chair. _Has he realized that I took the knife? Is he here to 'teach me a lesson' for my insolence?_ _I hope I haven't let anything obvious slip..._

"Dear, dear Miss Hooper," Joe says with a smile as he walks toward her, "I've just got word that everything is in place and we are going ahead with the auction tomorrow night. I hope you'll be on your best behaviour until then. I would hate for anything bad to happen to you in the meantime."

A shiver runs down Molly's spine. She knows Joe's threat isn't empty. There is no doubt he'll maim her if she isn't obedient so all she can think to do is nod silently. Thankfully, he hasn't suspected her of anything yet—the knife and her plan are still safe from him for now. She just hopes he'll continue to be oblivious.

"Good," Joseph nods, "I'm glad to hear we're on the same page. Now, before you get escorted to the auction, you'll be allowed to clean yourself up. We can't have you looking like one of the detective' homeless network, now can we? And as a treat for behaving, I'll even have some nice new clothes brought for you."

Molly watches him eye her up and down as he circles her like a Jaguar on the prowl.

"A size small, I'm guessing," he adds, thoughtfully.

Molly stays silent and watches him as he comes to a stop in front of her.

Joe claps his hands together in a finalizing gesture. "Well, I guess it's settled then! Can't wait to see you all cleaned up! Until tomorrow night Miss Hooper! Sweet dreams!"

And with that, he turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

Molly wakes early—the sun has just begun to fill the near empty room with dusky light. Her body is so sore and she feels impossibly tired, but today is the day. She's ready to escape this shit hole. She misses Gavin and Toby. She yearns for a bath and to sleep in her own bed. Escaping is the only way and it's now or never.

It takes forever for the heavy set thug to show up—just past midday—but when he does, a plan forms in her mind. She has spotted her chance for escape. He plods in, balaclava and all, moves a table close to her chair and then goes to get food from outside. He comes back in, silent as the dead and places it down in front of her. He then begins to untie her wrists.

This is it.

He gets one hand untied and reaches over her to undo the other. The balaclava seems to be getting in the way as he keeps on moving it to see better, completely distracted. That's when Molly strikes. Her hand slowly reaches for the hidden knife and manages by some miracle to pull it out without him noticing. As the last of the rope is untied she uses all of her strength and stabs him under the arm, serrated blade slicing through skin and slipping through his ribs and pulls it out again forcefully. Another forceful stab finds its way between the thug's ribs for good measure. The action sounds like a wet zipper.

He tries to shout and pulls away, completely stunned at what just happened. The blood is soaking into his clothes at an ungodly pace as he fumbles for his gun which is on the other side of the table. The thug desperately tries to get to his firearm but stumbles and collapses on the ground gasping and gurgling.

It was a calculated move to puncture his lung, and one she had thought over many times. It came down to making sure to silence him before he called for back-up. What she didn't plan on was the thug leaving the gun out of reach. That was just plain dumb luck. Luck that she was extremely grateful to have on her side at a time like this.

Instantly jumping into action, she unties her ankles as quick as she can. She would hate for her good fortune to run out and the henchman to alert the others. She stands and hops over the large thug who is still trying desperately to reach his gun on the table, to no avail. The pool of blood underneath him is the size of a tire now while he struggles in vain to move. Molly grabs the gun, cocks it and looks down at him barrel pointed in his direction.

"You know if you struggle, you're more likely to bleed out and die. My advice is to just sit tight and put pressure on the wound. I'm sure someone will be around shortly."

With that, she leaves the injured thug and heads for the door.

Her freedom so close she can taste it.


End file.
